Eight years.
That’s how long it had been since I groggily stumbled off a plane, heat blasting my face. After over 24 hours of traveling, I finally touched down in New Delhi, India again.
I tugged my pilot case behind me as we weaved through the airport together. To my surprise, most of the fuzzy memories I possessed continued to ring true. Golden, auburn carpet remains in the terminal. Hanging on the walls above customs, there are huge fiberglass sculptures of mudras, symbolic hand gestures in Hinduism, mounted on copper disks. My Bharatnatyam years graced my mind upon seeing them, making my fingers ache. I could recall flexing my palm for my teacher to see, forcing my joints to bend at sharp, ninety-degree angles. Despite my mother’s protests to preserve our culture, I gave it up to focus on my Taekwondo lessons.
We arrived in the middle of monsoon season, so my glasses fogged up the moment I stepped outside. I looked like a bumbling idiot, trying to make sure I could simultaneously see and keep up with my father. The sun was only beginning to peak from the horizon, but there was already a thin layer of sweat on my forehead. Imagining the heat at its peak terrified me.
We peeled away from the airport at around five or six in the morning. At this point, the sky had changed to a light gray sheen of clouds, with gold streams squeezing through wherever the sun saw room. I stayed awake the entire car ride to my grandmother’s place, taking in the sights before me. New Delhi has always been a place much larger, too busy to care about me. But the towering, flashy buildings that cast shadows over me were merely that: buildings. They were stagnant and unassuming, so I passed them by. People started to open up their businesses, doze off at the bus stops, and climb onto their scooters.
A new day had begun, and I was finally a part of it.
My grandmother and older cousin’s family had moved to a new apartment since the last time we visited, so I’d be exploring new places upon arriving. My dad’s eldest brother greeted us warmly.
“How has it been so far?” he asked while helping us with our bags.
“Hot,” I replied, wiping my glasses again. He laughed and ushered us upstairs.
Most of my relatives were still asleep, so I sat and waited for them to trickle out of their rooms. My grandmother was first, hugging every part of me: first, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist, then clutching my forearms, before weaving our fingers together. Her embrace told me that she knew how time wore us down.
My aunts came next. After a round of hugging and cheek-pinching, I sat with both of them and listened to them talk. Throughout the trip, I’d find both of them inserting tidbits of life advice and stories into our conversations: lessons to take back to America. I drank chai with them in the mornings, which seemed to surprise my mom.
Around ten in the morning, my cousins finally emerged. My older cousin found me first, quickly squeezing me into a hug.
“I was up until six studying last night,” she groaned, rubbing the sleepiness out of her eyes. She would have exams right after my trip ended, so she remained diligent throughout my stay. She’s studying to be a physical therapist, attending the same university my parents went to. My dad brought her his old textbooks. They almost made my suitcase go over the weight limit.
My older cousin is the only one who actually lives in India, while the rest of us live abroad. My younger cousins are sisters, born and raised in Moscow, Russia. I visited them there once six years ago, when one was just entering elementary school and the youngest was still a baby. Like my growth, seeing them mature was inevitable. I was still in shock when my younger cousin, just shy of thirteen, was only a few centimeters shorter than me.
Later, I was sitting in my older cousin’s room, watching her go through her closet for an outfit with my younger cousin. She was talking about her upcoming exams when she paused to sneeze. I didn’t blame her. I wasn’t used to the dust, either. Moments later, my younger cousin sniffled, too.
She sniffled again, louder, and my older cousin spun around. I glanced over at her, but she didn’t look congested at all. She looked up at my older cousin with wide eyes and lips pursed, trying to hide the smile that was growing on her face. Her shoulders hiked up under my older cousin’s gaze, and she started kicking her feet to feign innocence. We made eye contact, and I instantly got her message.
My older cousin sighed and attempted to continue, but I sniffled this time. She stilled while my younger cousin started snickering behind her.
“I thought you were an adult,” she sighed with exasperation.
“I’m still younger,” I argued, “this is my job.” I sniffled again to solidify my point.
Our shenanigans persisted, ping-ponging while my older cousin tried (and failed) to act like it didn’t annoy her. We escalated into full-blown wheezing, then cracked when we ended up syncing with each other.
“I hate you guys,” my older cousin said with a smile on her face. It brightened further when my youngest cousin came in to let us know that we were leaving, effectively putting an end to her misery.
As the youngest of my immediate family, the words, “Saumya-didi,” were jarring to hear. I knew nothing about being one of the elders I’d been told all my life to respect. However, the giant grin on my younger cousin’s face told me that I was doing something right.
I only had a brother for most of my life, so I didn’t know what it was like to have sisters, either. The following week, our entire family packed up for a getaway to Rajasthan, an Indian state southeast of New Delhi. During the whole trip, I ended up rooming with my cousins. On tour buggies, we’d squeeze in together, with the youngest on one of our laps. We took turns screaming on my karaoke microphone. My older cousin would give us advice for the future. My younger cousin debriefed us on the drama at her school. The youngest would wake us up every morning.
Rajasthan is home to the most forts in India, built by the Rajput clans that controlled most of northern and western India for hundreds of years. My mother continues to remind me our lineage traces back to the warriors and rulers of this era. I didn’t feel much like a soldier under the beating sun. When we were ushered around the various historical sites, the heat unrelenting, my cousins and I would duck in front of every fan we could find until we were forced to move on. However, the hike up the hilly terrain was nothing compared to how breathless I was upon seeing the Arvalli Range extend towards the horizon. Surrounded by my family, I was momentarily possessed by my ancestors and filled with glory.
The days before our departure were tranquil. I found my copy of “Unaccustomed Earth” by Jhumpa Lahiri in my backpack. My brother gifted it for my birthday the previous year, but I’d never found the opportunity to crack it open. The only thing I knew about the author was that she was Desi, like me. So, I packed it thinking that reading it in India would somehow make me connect to or understand it better, like a literary pilgrimage.
I tucked myself away in my grandmother’s bedroom, which is decorated with framed photos of her grandchildren. I switched between wanting the AC unit on or off. I’ve always been stingy with it running for so long in America, but it was more than that: I’d grown used to India’s heat. It was like an untapped strand in my genes had finally been switched on.
My aunt entered the room, searching for something. I kept my water bottle on the floor beside the bed. She advanced toward the pile of things next to it, and I immediately picked it up to not get in her way.
“Sorry,” I apologized automatically, cradling the bottle in my arms.
To my surprise, my aunt gave me a dismissive wave. “This is your home, too,” she casually declared before waltzing out.
Out of all the fuzzy memories from our previous trip, one stands out in particular. My family was standing at the door of my grandmother’s previous apartment, surrounded by our suitcases – a tangible reminder of the distance between us. Maybe my grandmother sensed this, because the moment she faced my father, she gently cradled his face in her hands, tears spilling down her cheeks. My father is her youngest, but he was the first to leave the nest and flew the farthest away.
I spent a good portion of my last night sitting with my younger cousins, going through photos on each other’s phones. My youngest cousin was only two years old in 2017, so she couldn’t remember anything from the last time I visited. We exchanged stories of our lives apart, from adventures on vacation to silly dance performances. It’s not only difficult to squeeze eight years apart into three weeks: t’s impossible.
We needed to wake up at dawn the next day to beat New Delhi’s notorious traffic, so we couldn’t stay up for the rest of the night. No matter how long I clung to the small haven I built there, I had to leave again. In those moments, I understood how my grandmother felt.
My younger cousin gave me a surprised look when she noticed tears bubbling in my eyes.
“Are you crying?” she asked.
“No,” I lied, before my cousins pulled me into a group hug.
Once again, I had to watch New Delhi shrink below as I flew away. Unable to watch another movie, I pulled “Unaccustomed Earth” out of my bag.
The title comes from a quote from Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “The Custom-House”:
“Human nature will not flourish, any more than a potato, if it be planted and replanted, for too long a series of generations, in the same worn-out soil. My children have had other birthplaces, and, so far as their fortunes may be within my control, shall strike their roots into unaccustomed earth.”
A few nights before I left for university, I laid with my mother on the rug of our living room floor. I wasn’t sure how I was going to cope with not seeing my parents every day or hearing their voices nagging me.
“You’ll be okay,” she said, as I shifted on my side to face her. “Your aunts noticed it too – you adjust wherever you go. You’re still a kshatrani.”
As I make my way through university now, I find myself inspired by ivy that climbs up bricks. They conquer every surface they encounter, securing themselves wherever they go. I’m not as resilient as they are, but I hope that someday I will be.
Home can be difficult to define. Is it your roots or wherever you grow towards? I think it can be both. My family is everywhere in the world, making their own marks on the Earth. Just like that, I am not alone. I never have been.
I belong here. I always have.